


I Owe You

by cazei



Series: Boring Without You [4]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alcohol, Jack kinda is neglectful of poor Race, M/M, Race is Drunk, Race needs a filter, Spot is Not Drunk, Spot is a Sap, Underage Drinking?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 20:51:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10907238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cazei/pseuds/cazei
Summary: Spot sighs. "Sling," He says to someone behind him. "I'm going to take the lightweight to Manhattan to make sure he doesn't pitch himself off the Bridge. Keep outta trouble.""Thanks, Spot," Jack says, clapping Spot on the back before sinking back into the party.Race tilts his head. "But...Spo', you's don't live in Manhattan."Spot shakes his head. "Nevermind. I may push you off the bridge now."-Race is drunk and guess who takes him home?





	I Owe You

**Author's Note:**

> i am in the car, and i'll edit this,,eventually. 
> 
>  
> 
> this was a prompt!! enjoy!!

 

 

 

It wasn't supposed to be a party. It wasn't even supposed to be a gathering.  

It was just a few newsies, meeting behind a bar after selling, drinking some alcohol that they found. Then, word spread to the rest of Brooklyn, Spot ended up showing up, and newsies from Manhattan, Queens, and even the Bronx showed up. They ended up moving to an old, abandoned warehouse, and alcohol was being brought by the bottleful.

Which is why, currently, Anthony "Racetrack" Higgins is weaving his way through a crowd of drunk newsies and other young workers in New York.

He sees Mush and Blink hanging off of each other, a bottle in both their hands. Both of their faces are flushed and red, and Race reminds himself to check on them later. 

To his left, he sees a cluster of Queens newsies, eyeing the Brooklyn cluster suspiciously. A few newsies mix away from their boroughs, but most stay with their fellow workers.

 

He continues to walk straight, though, heading towards where the Borough Leaders stand near a wall, eyeing each other suspiciously. 

Jack greets him with a grin; Spot with a scowl. Chow, of Queens, gives him a respectful nod; Brook, Coney Island, gives him a smile; And Ari from The Bronx blinks at him as a way of greeting.

A few people high up on each borough's hierarchy loiter nearby, which is why Race decided to crash. He grins at Sling and Blue, the only other newsies in this circle he knows well, and takes his spot next to Jack.

"Good party," Race says to Spot.

A few newsies in their cluster give him a confused look; not many people address the King of Brooklyn to his face.

Spot scowls slightly. "I don't even know how this happened."

 Race shrugs. "You bring a bunch of tired, child workers to a warehouse and give them alcohol, the news will spread."

"All the way to Manhattan, I assume?"

 Race grins at Spot's comment, his tongue sticking to the back of his teeth.

"I'm surprised no one's thrown any punches yet," Jack says, glancing at Sling and Race who choke on their drinks.

Chow clears his throat. "I've punished those responsible, and they weren't acting on my authority. Can we drop this already? It's been weeks."

Race shrugs. "Consider it dropped."

Ari's second in command points across the room. "Those telegram kids brought more drinks." 

"We're all going to feel like shit in the morning," Sling announces, and Blue laughs and elbows him.

"Considering what time we wake up, I already feel like shit in the morning," Blue says.

Race sees a crate of drinks being brought in, and he spots his favorite. Immediately, his feet feel gravitated towards them.

 "Anyone want anything?" He asks while walking away.

 "Race, I swear, do _not_ get drunk," Jack warns. "I need you to help me round up our newsies after."

Race waves his hand, brushing off his warning. "I'm not a lightweight, Kelly."

"You say that _now_ ," Someone mutters, but Race is already gone

 

— 

It's an hour later and Race is definitely a little more than buzzed. He doesn't drink much, but he knows this is more than usual. It's difficult to get alcohol when you make ten cents an hour.

He's hanging off of someone -- he doesn't really know who it is -- and laughing. He doesn't remember anything being funny, but it is.

Then, he's leaning against a wall, laughing his head off and gasping for breath.

"Wow, Race," A casual voice says. "Not a lightweight?"

Oh. It's Jack -- _that_ was his name! Race knows who he was leaning on for the better part of an hour now.

 _Better late than never, eh?_

Another figure approaches, just as Race thinks the entire building has too many people in it, and it is definitely close to bursting now.

 "So much for him not getting drunk," The new figure says.

Race moves his hand from his eyes as he continues to laugh. _When did he cover his eyes? Oh, right. When the room started spinning._

"I-I am _not_ \-- I'm no' drunk," Race says indignantly. He promptly hiccups.

Spot, Race _thinks_ his name is, puts a hand on Race's shoulder.

"Kelly, I think your boy is about to throw up," Spot says. "Has he ever had alcohol before?"

"I'll tell ya'. I am an 'perienced drinker, Spo'," Race huffs, but he does agree with Spot. He's a shot away from spewing it all up.

"I'll have Specs or Crutchie take him home," Jack says.

 " _No_!" Race calls, drawing out the word. "I'm _fine_ , I'm _good_."

Spot sighs. "Sling," He says to someone behind him. "I'm going to take the lightweight to Manhattan to make sure he doesn't pitch himself off the Bridge. Keep outta trouble."

"Thanks, Spot," Jack says, clapping Spot on the back before sinking back into the party.

Race tilts his head. "But...Spo', you's don't live in Manhattan."

Spot shakes his head. "Nevermind. I may push you off the bridge now."

"Spo', I can't swim," Race tells him innocently.

"I know, Higgins," Spot says. He throws an arm around Race's shoulders and helps him from the wall. Together they stumble out of the hot warehouse and into the cool night.

Usually, the cool air would be a welcome change. Usually, Race would raise his chin to the breeze and grin. Usually, Race isn't drunker than he's ever been in his sixteen years of life on this brilliant planet.

So, Race turns away from Spot and throws up onto the pavement.

"Wonderful," Spot sighs. "Just _brilliant_."

Race keels over and sinks to his knees, liquid spewing out of his mouth. After a few seconds, he stops coughing up liquor, and he whips his mouth.

"Oh," Race says, looking at his mess.

Spot stares down at him. "You're a mess, you know that?"

Race frowns.

"Oh, come on," Spot says, "I'm dragging you home, stop pouting."

"I don' feel good, Spot," Race says, and Spot shoves something into his clenched fingers.  

"It's water," Spot supplies. " _Drink_."

Race stares at it for a while longer, so Spot rolls his eyes and tips the flask to Race's lips.

After copious amounts of water and several minutes of rest, Spot hauls Race back to his feet and they’re on their way again. 

 It’s not too difficult, really. Race is a happy drunk. He’s a malleable drunk. Spot could tell him that he lived in an alley way, and Race would gleefully follow him. 

He stumbles, yes, and is generally a pain, but Spot can handle him. He’s handled his newsies at much drunker stages, so he can handle a lightweight from Manhattan just fine. 

"You know," Race says as they reach the bridge, "you’re not as scary as people make you out to be."

It’s the most coherent thing Race’s said all night, so Spot figures he deserves a response. 

"Don’t let anyone know," Spot says jokingly. However, Racetrack doesn’t process his sarcasm, and his eyes widen and he nods his head. 

"It’ll be a ‘ecret," Race says in a whispered voice. 

"Oh, I _hate_ you," Spot mutters. "Yeah, our little secret. 

Race grins. "You’s know," He hiccups, "you’re my friend."

"Haven’t we already had this discussion?" 

"I’s don’ know, Spot," Race murmurs. "I jus’ had’ta say it."

Spot has the sudden urge to toss Race off the bridge, but he doesn't, if only for Brooklyn's sake.  

Eventually, they make it off the bridge without any casualties — or homocides.  

"I’m glad you’s my friend," Race says as he stumbles into Manhattan.  

Now, Spot stumbles. 

"Oh, yeah?" Spot says, trying to keep his voice even. "Why’s that?"

"Well, you’s nicer than you seem. And you didn’ soak Blue ’n Sling. Mos’ other guys woulda’ done that." 

"That’d be hypocritical of me," Spot mutters, and Race giggles. 

"See, you’s funny too."

Spot refrains from saying, " _Wasn’t a joke,_ " if only because he needs no more reason to give Race a reminder of this discussion when he’s hungover. 

Oh. Hungover. 

"How are you plannin’ on selling tomorrow when you’ve got a hangover?" Spot asks. 

 Race frowns. "I’s probably sell with Crutchie. He’d let me sell wit’ him."

"That’s good," Spot says slowly. "But you’re going to be sick to your stomach."

"Spot," Race whines, "don’t remin’ me. I gotsta’ sell or I’ll be out on the street."

Spot sighs. "How much is your rent for a night?"

"Three cents." Race tilts his head. 

A shiny coin is pulled out of Spot’s front pocket and placed in Race’s hand. 

"There’s a quarter. You can take a week off if you want. Don’t lose it," Spot says. 

Race stares at his hand. "'Dis is a lotta money, Spot."

Spot shrugs. "Just don’t lose it. I owe you, probably."

"Nah," Race shakes his head. "I owe you, like, so much." 

"If you get emotional on me," Spot promises, "I’m actually going to punch you."

“Oh no,” Race says, his voice has something along the line of fear in it, wrapped in a monotone exterior. 

“I’m not actually going to hit you.” Spot rolls his eyes. 

The Race shakes his head and throws up on the pavement. Two inches from Spot’s feet. 

Spot pulls the flask out of his pocket wordlessly. 

 

—

 

It takes twenty minutes longer than it should, but Anthony Higgins is home. 

Spot adjusts Race’s weight on his shoulder and pushes the door open. 

Inside, the Manhattan Lodger, Kloppman, Spot thinks, stares at them from behind a desk. 

“It’s awfully late. Where are the rest of them?” Kloppman asks. 

Spot bites his lip. “Newsie gathering,” He decides on. “Race got sick, so I brought him back.”

Kloppman smiles. “Real kind of you. Do you know where the bunks are?” 

Spot nods and helps Race in the direction of his bed. 

“Hey, Spo’?” Race asks, barely coherent at this point, as Spot drags him to his bunk. 

“What, Higgins?” Spot says, focusing on not getting puked on. 

“If you’s know my real name, ’s only fair that I know yours,” Race mumbles. 

Spot rolls his eyes and sits Race on his bunk. 

“Nice try,” Spot says, and he helps Race lay down. 

“I jus’ wanna know,” Race whines. 

“Close your eyes and go to sleep,” Spot says instead of answering. 

Race groans, but concedes. 

Spot pauses for a moment, hovering near Race’s bunk. He’s just doing it to make sure Race is sleeping, but he does something he’s not sure he’ll regret or not. 

“It’s Sean,” He mutters and turns to leave. 

“ _Hah_!” Race mutters, eyes still closed but decidedly not asleep. 

“Bastard,” Spot calls, continuing to walk. 

“Night, Sean,” Race murmurs, having lost the energy that comes with satisfaction. 

“Night, Anthony,” Spot says. 

 

—

 

The next morning, Anthony “Racetrack” Higgins wakes up with a blinding headache, clothes that smell of alcohol, and a flask full of fresh water by his pillow with a note. 

 

_Rest up, you’ll need it._

_\- S. Conlon_

**Author's Note:**

> i am fifteen and have never had alcohol. i literally googled how drunk people act. forgive me. 
> 
> comment?!


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